


Aroos

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Fake Marriage, M/M, Mostly Leroux-based with some Kay influences, Pharoga - Freeform, Yes this is the pharoga fake marriage AU nobody asked for, the Daroga escapes Persia with Erik and everything changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: A newly wed couple seeks refuge at sunset. The curiosity of a young boy obliges.Or the AU where the Daroga and Erik flee Persia in disguise, as a rugged traveler and his shrouded bride. Yes, this is a pharoga fake marriage story.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Pharoga was literally one of the first serious ships I've ever had, but the truth is I never really got to write any of my ideas for them. I want to remedy that now. So here it is, the fake marriage AU that every ship needs. I don't think this story will be very long, and at some point, this fake marriage may become a real one...
> 
> Note: The prologue's narrated by an OC, and if anyone's curious, no, this is not a genbend. There is, however, crossdressing throughout *winks*

No one had offered to buy Bulent. I would go home with sore news, but it was difficult to say that the ache in my belly stopped. Father had tasked me with selling our goat, for that was what Bulent was, with the hopes that none would see the limp in his leg. He had gone lame in his old age, too old to keep up with his routine, and too thin to do much for a meal. But Bulent was my friend-- I had made this clear well before my thirteenth year, and now, two years more, I still could not call him anything but. 

His leash in my hand, a beaten cord of rope, I decided to leave the market then. Dusk was upon us, and the vendors were closing shop, their plaza transformed into a sea of shimmering cloths within minutes of the sun’s last rays. Fate is a tricky thing. One step more and I too would have disappeared into the night. Perhaps Bulent would have been slaughtered the next day.

Then I heard a laugh. It slipped through my ears like a blossoming petal. It was not quite a giggle, but lighter than a chuckle, something not unlike a whistling bell. I turned my head.

And that was when I saw them.

There was a man haggling with a peddler. I had never seen either man in my life. But in Gawar, that was not such an uncommon thing, for we sat between the Ottoman and Persia. It would be far more peculiar to go a day without seeing a new trader from the east or west. From their tongues, I could hear Farsi, the peddler’s tone far rougher than the man in front.

The peddler looked to be a man of average height, shorter than me by at least one head. His hair was a greasy black, pressed down by a scruffed hat, and sacks of burlap lay upon his broad shoulders. If nothing else, he had the look of a man who would purchase and sell, and never return for perhaps the next ten years.

The other man was taller, his figure built strong, as if he had the spine of an imperial guard. Under a keffiyeh stained with sand, he boasted a pair of jade green eyes, their color so sharp that even the sweep of his lashes could not hide their piercing gaze. His nose bridge was straight and fine, resting above a neatly trimmed beard of black. And as he spoke, I could see a crooked tooth or two, but he was without a doubt, the handsomest traveler I’d yet seen.

“Please, good sir,” he told the peddler, “we’ve traveled for days, and my poor wife has fallen ill. If you could spare a packet of your spices-”

“I’ve told you before and I shall say so again,” the peddler cut in, “my products and mine alone. You buy for the price I offer, or go to someone else.”

“Please, good sir.”

I heard the laugh once more. Behind them, a horse stood still, its legs covered in dirt and mane in dusty tangles. It looked like a mare, though I could never tell up front. Regardless, it must have been a handsome horse some time ago but those better days were long gone. Atop the horse, a woman sat, head tilted left and legs hanging from the saddle’s side. She was by no means a slight woman, but there was a distinct lack of weight in her bearing, like a ghost that would have gone unnoticed if not for that laugh. In place of curves, her body seemed built of bone but graced with a cat’s reflex nonetheless. 

She was covered from head to toe in dark cloth, bundled in a tattered black shawl and ebony scarf. Her foot poked out from beneath the dress, and in place of sock or skin, only gauze covered the exposed part. But of her face, I could see nothing. It was hidden behind a piece of silk, and when she tilted again, I caught a glimpse of bright amber under that cloth.

“My love,” she said in a low hum- and my heart rather stopped, for it was the singular loveliest thing I’d e’er heard, “leave him be. If good sir does not wish to help, who are we to force him? It’s not like you can arrest him.”

“Please, _ dear _, do not jest in a time like this,” her husband replied, much more stiffly than his wife.

“I wouldn’t dare.” And I imagined her smile, an impish curve of rosy lips. “My love, perhaps I could persuade our friend?”

Her hand went to a band around her waist, as if digging in for a piece of string, but her husband stayed that wrist. Roughly. 

“You will do no such thing,” he ordered.

“Quarrel with your woman all you’d like,” the peddler jeered, “the sun’s set and I need be on my way.”

The husband called after him, but he took no heed, and in his frustration, the man clicked his teeth and hissed at his wife, in some tongue I could not quite catch (“_ Erik, can you not compromise for once!? What should we do now, you ingrate?” _). She laughed once more, and it compelled me to nudge Bulent forward. I did not care for her man, but I wished to ease their plight, if only to let her know that I would be the gentleman her husband was not.

“Hullo sir,” I said. Bulent bleated. My Farsi was not perfect, but I knew more than most. Mother was Persian after all.

Upon hearing my voice, the traveler stumbled around, so shocked that his throat swallowed those foreign words. 

“I heard that your lady was ill,” I went on, though I was not too sure if that was true, “are you looking for a doctor?”

The wife stilled, and for a moment, I wondered if she was holding her breath. The horse’s reins in his hand, her husband shook his head. 

“We’re just passing through, boy. Is there an apothecary nearby?”

“Not for more steps, sir. But it’s getting late, and I-”

For a second, it crossed my mind that father would not take kindly to what I was about to say. But all I could think of was _ her _comfort.

“I want to invite you to stay the night with my family. It’s not safe so late at night.”

The traveler took a beat to consider this, no doubt new concerns passing through his chiseled face. He looked to his wife and she nodded. And back to me, he said, “That’s true. Then how can we thank you for this hospitality, my boy- your name?”

“Ibrahim. Think nothing of it, sir. Mother may want help for supper, but I’m sure she won’t care if the lady’s taken ill.”

“Bless you, child. We will repay this kindness, Ibrahim, in full.”

Then she spoke again, words so soft and tempered that I felt knees quiver. “Young Ibrahim, what shall we call your friend?”

I grinned. “His name is Bulent.”

“He is a dashing goat,” she told me. Oh!

But sir was not amused. He scowled, as if his wife was up to some insufferable trick. But he did soften when he looked at me. He clenched the horse’s reins and asked me to show them the way. Bulent at the lead, I walked on, and it took every part of my self-restraint not to look back. The beautiful traveler and his beautiful wife occupied my every thought.

I recall asking him what the desert was like, for I had never been. I told him it was brave of them to travel alone, with so few provisions and so few coins. She did not speak again, try as I might to incite her speech. When we reached my father’s home, I’d learned that the traveler’s name was Darius and his shrouded wife, Rookheeya. They had been married for only ten days. They hailed from Mazandaran and they were en route to Constantinople to visit the lady's brother. Once there, perhaps they would settle. 

“Constantinople is a lovely city,” I told them, though I’d never been.

Our abode was simple, large enough to house my parents and sisters two, but a far cry from the structures of Constantinople no doubt. With little fanfare, the horse clopped through the grass leading up to the stable behind, and once I helped Darius tether his mare, he released the reins.

“I’ll get my father now,” I said.

“Thank you,” he answered, moving to help Rookheeya down.

I trekked away, but could not help lingering for a few moments more. I watched, with some slight envy, as Darius lifted his love into his arms. She slipped in as easily as a bird and wing. They were of similar height, but perfectly matched, as if one was sculpted by heaven to embrace the other. And then Darius smiled, relief washing over his green gaze, a glow in his skin now that he was convinced they were alone. Rookheeya stayed within his grasp, her face still lost to that black cloth, but I could picture the woman behind- lashes downturned, cheekbones shy, mouth yearning to touch his.

It was an eternity before I resumed my task. As I walked, I heard them follow, and when I looked from the corner of my eye, I saw that Darius still kept his wife in his embrace. He very well meant to carry her for the rest of our night.


	2. A Living Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the interest! The fake marriage saga continues! This version of the daroga is based more on the Leroux version than Kay, but for simplicity's sake, his real name will be Nadir in this story. Once again, we start out with Ibrahim's first person pov, but this time, we may get a sample of our couple's pov.

As expected, father had not been happy with the idea of inviting strangers into his home but fortunately for me, mother had cooked a hearty meal that evening and there was just enough for two extra mouths. Of course, sir (or Darius, as we would come to call him) insisted his wife had a small appetite and would not require much for supper. But for a woman her height, she was awfully thin- even in that shroud of black, I could see how sharp her hips cut, and whenever her hands left the comfort of dark sleeves, the wrists were little more than bones. Even so, Rookheeya was quick to support her husband’s claim, and I wondered if she truly required so little or if she blindly agreed with everything he said. She did not seem a docile bride, but she deferred to Darius so much that it was hard to imagine her as anything but.

Our guests were amiable enough, and it did not take long for mother and father to be taken with their charm. As loathe as I was to admit it in my grappling envy, Darius had a presence about him, that of a trustworthy friend and a man who would do you no wrong. And nothing need be said of his wife’s gifts; she was as graceful and ladylike as they came. She spoke only when spoken to, and any sound that left her lips was enough to soothe even the whiniest of my little sisters. And though it seemed that she was too weak to walk without her husband’s help, Rookheeya was far from fragile. That much we could tell from the firmness in her soft tone and the way she could capture Darius with a single look.

That night, my parents sat across from the newly weds. I was placed on Darius’ left, and my sisters to the right of his lady. And then, however silly it was, I spent the night envious of my younger sister. I could not help but imagine myself in her place, next to Rookheeya as her clothed elbow brushed against mine. It would be gentle, I knew, as quick as a nightingale’s peck or a passing rose petal. But it would be enough, and when she released that pretty laugh, I’d be the first to hear and the first to see her flash of golden eyes. And then, if I was bold enough while father distracted Darius with words of business, my fingers could touch hers. She could give my hand a gentle squeeze and-

“Pass the rice, Ibrahim!” my sister demanded. “Stop daydreaming.”

“It’s fine,” Darius said with a low chuckle, “the boy’s tired. Here.”

And he put some bites of rice upon Rookheeya’s plate. Mother passed the bulgar next, and as we exchanged spices, I looked down at my serving of lentil soup. I heard Darius compliment the tabbouleh, a dish mother had insisted on making specifically for our guests.

“Rookheeya,” mother said, “I hope we can all be friends tonight. If you wish, you may remove your veil.”

Immediately, I looked up, feeling a sudden throb against my chest. I imagined her with a face as sweet as her voice, and I was unsure if I could handle seeing it in the flesh. Transfixed, I stared at her veil, that wretched piece of cloth all that stood between her beauty and our gazes. Rookheeya placed a long finger upon her veil and pulled, just slight enough so that we could see the top of her eyes. She met my stare and I’m ashamed to admit that I did not know if my mouth parted then. Her irises were a golden amber, made all the more brilliant by the fire of candlelight. Within those eyes was something equal parts fierce and sad. I could almost see the smile beneath her veil, so eager to tease.

“Rookheeya,” Darius said, the name slipping out like a breath of warning, his eyes seized with a confused panic.

If she had the face to match her voice, then his concerns were surely justified. What would he do should another man be ensnared by his bride’s charm? And if my father should ogle, I know that’s all he would do- my parents are loyal to one another and quite in love, though not as passionate as they’d once been. But I was a different matter. I knew Darius saw me as just a boy. But did Rookheeya? And as these silly fancies swam through my head, Rookheeya spoke with a voice like honey and silk.

“Forgive me,” she told her hosts, “it is not that I am not comfortable revealing my face to you. But at our union, I swore an oath-”

And those eyes met sir’s and his alone.

“That from then on, I would show my face to no man but my husband.”

She took his hand in hers, and a flare of candlelight made sir’s ears flush red. He had the look of a man whose head was spinning, and I very much wanted to splash some soup onto his handsome nose. Darius was the most fortunate of men! And he did not seem to understand the depths of his luck! Why, then, would he not hold her hand as kindly as she held his?

“Oh my,” mother said, a hand on her chest, “that’s a sweet sentiment indeed. Quite an oath to undertake, dear.”

“How very romantic,” sister said.

“To be young and in love.” Father swallowed his rice. “It’s a blessing you two must cherish. Once you reach our age, you’ll have little time for these declarations of love.”

Darius could only nod, stiff as a statue as he looked to his wife in disbelief. Fortunate man. 

* * *

After dinner, mother fixed our guests some tea. Rookheeya offered to help with the dishes, but as she was ill, mother would have none of it. In the end, I sat by father’s side as he spoke to sir, and only half-listened, for my attention was on my sisters across, their eyes bright as they knelt by the lady’s feet. Rookheeya was telling them stories, fairytales and the like, with her angelic tongue. But here I was, stuck with the men and father’s tales of things I’d heard a thousand times.

“She’s good with children, your Rookheeya,” father said as he scratched a bearded chin, “she’d make a good mother.”

Darius coughed, as if choking on tea. But he recovered quickly and replied, “Yes… she has her tender side.”

“Will you have children of your own soon?”

“Perhaps.”

They’d surely have beautiful babes, a son with his mother’s amber eyes and a daughter with the father’s jade. I thought of Darius returning home from a long day’s work. Rookheeya would be waiting with a tray of hummus and their two small children by her waist. Darius would walk up to her, push that veil back, and take her soft lips in his own. How happy they would be. And it cut me then, to know that I could never interfere with such a love. 

“How did you and your lady come to be?” father asked at last, and then, my ears perked.

Darius leaned back in his chair, gaze unreadable as he fished for words. “Her brother is a close friend of mine. He introduced us, but really, it was her singing that drew me to her.”

“Yes, she has a lovely voice. I would love to hear her sing.”

“Perhaps when the lady returns.”

Father nodded. “And I suppose you knew you had to be with her then?”

Darius smiled, as if there was some joke we were not privy to. “That’s one way to put it, yes. I could not take no for an answer. I don’t know what it was about me that made her... family relent, but I’m thankful all the same.”

“Lovely. What is it you do again, Darius?”

“I was a servant for a nobleman in Mazandaran. But it’s something I’ve done all my life- we thought it was time for a change.”

“You’re still young. Now’s the time.”

I knew father was about to impart some words of wisdom, for he always did like to lecture. But at that moment, mother returned from the kitchen and I blurted out, too loudly, “Mother’s back! Sir, may we hear the lady sing?”

Perhaps goaded by the excitement on my face, Darius looked to his wife and said, “My  _ love _ , would you do our hosts a favor and sing a little song?”

“I would gladly serenade our hosts,  _ love _ ,” Rookheeya said, and not with some small hint of taunt, added, “especially for young Ibrahim.”

Oh! Oh!

Excited, my sisters placed their heads upon her knees, and Rookheeya blessed us with a song. Her words were weaved in Farsi, but it was such a melody that I forgot the words. I forgot who I was or where we were. Her song was a blessing and nothing less, for no sweeter hymn had ever entered my young ears (and had never entered them since). I knew now how Darius must have felt when he first heard her sing, and weakly, I could only admit within my heart that I’d fallen under the same spell. Blessed Rookheeya, I believe you were the first woman I loved.

When she finished, mother wiped away fresh tears, and unanimously, our family clapped. 

“I’ve never heard such a beautiful thing!” father gasped, “my dear, we should count our blessings that Rookheeya did not swear to save her voice for her husband’s lone ears!”

I could not have agreed more.

* * *

After I put my sisters to bed with much fuss, I offered to show our guests their room in mother’s stead. Our home was not big, but it did sport an extra room that was enough to shelter two. Sometimes father’s friends or my uncle and aunt would stay the night if they were traveling east. It had been some time since we’d last tidied it up, but the couple said they would not mind. I’d already set their belongings by the bed within.

“Do you need anything else?” I asked.

“No, we’ll be fine. Thank you for everything, Ibrahim.” Darius still carried his wife in his arms, I noticed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, unless there’s something you need from us?” Darius regarded me with some confusion.

I shook my head. “Then can you handle this yourself, sir? Would you like me to help the lady in?”

Darius glanced at his wife before he said, “No, I believe we’re fine. Thank you. And do thank your parents.”

He made to enter then, and just as he crossed the threshold, Rookheeya turned her head. A bony hand beckoned me forward. And without a thought for sir, I obeyed.

“Here, dear boy,” she said in that heavenly tongue, “a little something from us.”

She opened her hand, and upon her palm, I saw cubed delights dusted with coconut and sugar. I felt my eyes bulge, and anxiously, I accepted the sweets from her hand. 

“Thank- thank you,” I babbled. Rather stupidly, I added, “I love delights.”

“I do too,” she said. Ah, a sweet woman with a sweet tooth.

“Good night, Ibrahim,” Darius said.

Before I knew it, the door had shut, and standing there with the sweets sticking to my hand, I wondered if I’d imagined a trace of irritation in sir’s voice. I smiled. I wanted to eat the delights then, but something told me to savor them just a bit longer. They were the lady’s favor and I wished to bask in her light for a while more. Behind that door, I heard them slip into that other language once more.

* * *

Nadir Khan, the former Daroga of Mazandaran, dropped his bride upon the bed, and sighed perhaps the loudest sigh of his life. He knelt by his companion and still in disbelief, muttered in the former magician’s native French, “ _ I would show my face to no man by my husband.  _ Really? How long did it take you to come up with that?”

“Don’t look so flustered,” the other  _ man _ said, slipping back into his familiar tenor at long last, “our hosts were quite taken with your  _ wife’s _ oath.”

“For someone who whined so long about this plan, you seem to enjoy this role with every fiber of your being.”

“And you didn’t, dear daroga? What’s that you said about my tender side? And not taking no for an answer?”

“You know exactly what I meant,” Nadir said through grit teeth, “if I’d taken your ‘no,’ Erik, the Shah-in-Shah would have my head.”

Erik scoffed. As the Persian moved the candle young Ibrahim had brought, Erik twisted his head, enough so that it faced the shadows instead. He untied the veil, and clutching the black cloth, sighed, as if breathing clearly for the first time in days. Nadir touched his side.

“Don’t look, daroga,” he sighed, “you’ll find no beauty here.”

“Not everything is about your wretched face, Erik.” Nadir pulled at the black dress, lifting enough to inspect what lay beneath, and Erik did not resist.

“Does it hurt?” Nadir asked softly.

“Not so badly anymore.”

Across that emaciated waist, gauze traveled from the chest down, winding heavily around the magician’s thin torso. Pink and brown blotched the bandages, signs that the wounds beneath had reopened during their trek here. Nadir looked to the bandaged leg, as if expecting to see the gash behind bleed out. But there was nothing there. At least some part of Erik was recovering. 

He had been tempted to ask their hosts for fresh dressings, but such a request would draw suspicion. He had no doubt the Law was searching for them as they lay, and seeing as Ibrahim’s eyes were always trained on Erik, it would do  _ Darius _ no favors for the boy to accuse him of injuring his woman.

“You did well,” Nadir told him, palm touching the other man’s forehead, signs of soft fever still there. “Perhaps too well. The boy’s quite smitten with you. I’ve no idea why.”

“Is that envy I detect, dear daroga?”

“Tsk!”

Erik chuckled, much deeper than the laugh he’d put on as the shrouded Rookheeya, and Nadir admitted that he did very much miss the actual sound. He suspected Erik enjoyed playing at beauty more than he let on. It was the first time, perhaps, that he’d had a taste of what it was to be desired for things he did not have.

“I brought those delights for you,” Nadir said, “if you give them out so wantonly, I won’t do so again.”

“Alright, alright- Erik is  _ sorry _ , daroga.” He stretched his fingers, and in afterthought said, “What shall I do to make it up to you?”

Nadir took his hand, taking the time to part each finger with his thumb. Up close, he could see that the skin was calloused, wrist and palm covered with light scars and remnants of bruises. He placed the index finger against his lips, satisfied as Erik shivered.

“You can start by being my living wife,” the daroga said.

And one by one, he kissed the tip of each finger, trailing lips along each jut and curve.

“A living wife,” he heard Erik murmur, as reverent as a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, and again, please comment/kudos! Always excited to meet other pharoga fans!
> 
> On a side note, Ibrahim's teenage crush on "Rookheeya" wasn't planned- Ibrahim sort of took on a life of his own and decided he would fall for a crossdressing Erik haha.


	3. Interlude: The Groom's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's shown interest in this story! It really means a lot and I hope it's been worth the wait (this one's a bit short, but I think it's best not to have Ibrahim's pov here). 
> 
> Warning: flashback; some violence and attempted sexual assault

The desert sun had scorched by day, and that fire of heat gave way to a dry chill as night fell. The horse- or Gul, as Erik had taken to calling her- slowed to a steady pace, saddle no longer burning from the light of noon. The Daroga shivered, pulling the scarf from his nose; he allowed it a moment of fresh air. Reins in hand, he urged Gul on, her saddle crusted with bits of dried blood. The magician’s blood.

Stopping by a mound of sand, sufficiently safe from any storms ahead, Nadir hopped off the horse and permitted Gul a deserved rest. He slipped the jug from the pack in her side and brought it to the horse’s mouth. As she slurped, he remembered how thirsty his own throat was. He stored her jug away, and removed the figure slouched against her mane. 

Erik did not protest as the Daroga set him down. As Nadir sat, he pulled the magician into a tight hold, the other man’s head resting atop his shoulder. One hand groped for Erik’s black veil, lifting it just enough to slip water into the man’s mouth. Finished, Nadir took a swig from his own canteen.

“Where are we now?” Erik muttered faintly.

“Almost to the border. How are your wounds?”

“Bearable. You’ve no need to carry me around like some doll, daroga.”

“I fear you’d perish otherwise.”

“Ah, would that be so great a loss?”

“A terrible one.” Nadir shook his head. “I had to purchase a new horse for this stunt. And what of the time I spent nursing your pitiful self? However will you compensate me for all this if you die on the poor daroga?”

The magician nestled farther into the crook of Nadir’s arm. “Humor doesn’t suit you, daroga.”

The Persian was silent, mind devoid of more thought as he relaxed under the starlit sky, his chest rising and falling with the sound of Erik’s fevered breaths. 

“How did it come to this?” Nadir said, only registering what he’d asked once the words rolled out.

“Because the Shah wants my head, you great booby. And you were fool enough to save ugly Erik.”

But that had not been what the Persian meant. How had it ended up like this, he wondered, with the magician in his arms and Mazenderan far behind. When he’d first met the Frenchman- in what felt like so long ago- he nearly retched at the sight of his face. And not without some shame, Nadir recalled thinking,  _ “Surely a creature with such a face could not be human.” _ Since then, Erik had filled him with some deep unease and a touch of fear. But for the Shah-in-Shah’s sake, he’d spoken to the Living Corpse as he would any other man.

“And I’d do it again,” Nadir told him.

And here he sat, having thrown away all shreds of title and repute, for none other than Erik and the promise of an early death should they ever be caught. And for what?  _ “Perhaps I love him,” _ he’d once told his servant. The Frenchman would deny any declaration thrown his way, but his pride would never have agreed to Nadir’s plan had he not on some level hoped it to be true. The Daroga loved him. And it was very much, as simple as that.

_ “Master, how can you look at that hideous visage? _ ” Darius had once asked. Nadir remembered that he had shrugged and merely said,  _ “It’s an acquired taste.”  _ For that was true- the longer he stared upon Erik’s unmasked head, the less horror that face inspired, until- one way or another- there was none left.

The horror he felt was for whatever dark feats Erik could carry out, those monstrous acts cheered on by the little Sultana and her cries of delight. But those days were behind them and now, the Daroga knew (perhaps he had always known) that Erik never once wished to take part in so much death.

“I suppose bravery comes with stupidity,” Erik huffed. “I hope you know your brilliant plan involves marrying yourself to the _ living corpse _ .”

“I thought you’d jump for joy at the thought of marrying me, Erik. Have you forgotten the first time you made me tea, when you-”

“Oh! Don’t bring that up! I don’t even remember it.”

“Then let me refresh your memory.” Nadir felt the corners of his mouth curve up. “You came up to my door, uninvited I might add, with a cup of tea-”  _ And at the time, the Daroga had feared Erik wished to poison his tongue. _ “-You looked at me and for some odd reason, began crying at my feet.” _ Then he’d feared the trap door maker had gone mad, and in his madness would kill him where he stood. Nevertheless, he’d stood his ground and asked the magician what he wanted. _

“Shut up, daroga!”

“No, no, I’m getting to the best part.” He held Erik closer, chin pressed to a bony shoulder. “You trembled and said, ‘Daroga, why do you hate me?’”  _ And Nadir had dropped his jaw in disbelief, Erik failing to blink the tears away. He’d asked the magician to elaborate. _ “You said, ‘Daroga, you say you are my friend. I have never had a friend. I will stay away from you if you wish, I know I’ve been a bother and I shall never come near you again. I cover my face but I know you fear me, even when you say you like me- oh, daroga! I can see the hatred in your eyes, hear the contempt in your voice, but you always lie to my face! Tell me the truth and I will leave you be.’”

“How did you remember that spiel!?” Erik snapped, “will you never let it go?”

“I don’t believe I can. After all, it was the moment I learned that mighty Erik was nothing but a mortal man.”

“And that was the end of that.”

“Actually, you wept harder when I insisted I was your friend. ‘I only ever wanted you to like Erik,’ you’ told me, ‘I’m sorry for offending you!’ Now, when was the last time you apologized for offending me?”

An amber eye glared his way. “That was before I found out you were a disagreeable fart.  _ Everything  _ offends you, daroga, as I’ve come to learn. Hmph.”

_ Nadir had been quite puzzled then, if not disgusted by the sight of those tears. But Erik’s ramblings had been so childish and raw that they moved him to guilt. He had brought this boy- barely a man- with the full intention of sacrificing him to the altar that was the royal court. Its bloodlust would never be satisfied, but Erik had much blood to shed. The Daroga partook in walks with him and listened to his plans, but more often than not, he cast the Frenchman a cold shoulder and was all too eager to leave. He listened, but he did not care. He spoke, but only to dismiss.  _

_ He did not like Erik. Perhaps he never would. But he did not hate the magician, and when it dawned on him that he’d shown this young man nothing but coldness and cruelty (of which he was surely accustomed), Nadir swallowed a taste of shame. _

_ Nadir would ruminate on the magician’s tears for days to come, until he realized how nasty it had been to pretend to be Erik’s companion, when in truth, the Daroga was just like everyone else. _

_ So he resolved not to be so. He resolved to be the friend he claimed to be, with or without orders.  _

“But I do like you,” the Persian teased, “I like my Erik very much.”

“Heaven knows why.” But there was a smugness in Erik’s tone, one that told Nadir he savored every word.

And almost sheepishly, Erik added, “I like my Nadir too.”

Nadir did not reply, taking care to remember the intonation of that sweet voice instead. For all he knew, Erik would never say such a thing again- but it felt so good to hear. And for the next few weeks, if not months, the Frenchman would be sworn to silence. If he was to play the part of Nadir’s docile bride, Erik could utter no sound as a man. He could not be anything but a shrouded wife.

_ “Why must I be the bride?” Erik had whined. But against Nadir’s argument- “Because I have a face and a nose.”- Erik had to relent. _

The Daroga dozed off, Erik in his grip, both too tired to start a fire by their pitiful camp. How long he slept, Nadir had no idea. But when he awoke, thanks to a boot to the head, the hours of twilight hadn’t yet passed.

“Don’t move,” a voice commanded, raw and weighted. And decidedly  _ not  _ Erik’s.

There was a knife to his throat and a foot pressed against the back of his head, one man pinning him down and another keeping him trapped. When it finally dawned on Nadir that this was not a dream, the reality of where he was slammed into him like a moving train. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he said, as evenly as he could, this spark of defiance no doubt surprising his captors.

“You’re in no position to make demands,” a third man said, a jagged scar across his right eye. He was flanked by two more men, each deferring to his every move. 

A total of five. They were of varying sizes and strength, this much Nadir could assess. Their faces were obscured with scarves, fabric winding around scalps and chins, all the color of night and sand. He felt his breath catch for a moment before he realized how uncoordinated they appeared- these were common bandits, not the Shah’s men.

The relaxation was short-lived when he saw Gul’s reins in their hands, the horse petrified. Erik was slumped against her, caught between sleep and the scarred man’s grip. 

The bandit atop him spoke again, tugging at the Daroga’s ear. 

“So what do we do with him?” It was directed at the scarred man, no doubt the leader.

“He’s healthy,” his companion said, “could fetch a good price, chief.”

The leader shook his head. “I don’t like the look in those eyes. Bind him and leave him to die. Take the horse and whatever else he has.”

The blade touched Nadir’s throat, steel against skin, and as he protested, cords of rope lashed his arms behind. The Daroga of Mazenderan, brought down by a band of rag tag thieves-- that was not an end he could accept. As he thought of ways to best this band, Nadir looked to Erik again, half hoping the magician would have some trick up his sleeve.

And mistaking his look for some other glance, the thief nicked him along the jaw, a small trace of blood upon the blade. Nadir could hear the sneer in his voice when he spoke. “Now, don’t you worry about your lady. We’ll give you a nice shave and treat her right.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Nadir snarled back, surprised by his own reflex.

He hit the sand, a blow to his ribs. And as he lay squirming, the bandits laughed. 

“The woman comes with us,” their leader said, “as for her lover- we should’ve killed him in his sleep.”

“We can fix that, chief!”

Nadir’s head was pulled back, that knife swiping close before another voice- booming, high, and no doubt  _ womanly _ \- cried out, “Stop!”

As the Daroga again fell into a mouthful of sand, he stared up, perplexed beyond belief at who had just spoken: Erik. The Frenchman pushed himself from poor Gul, struggling quite hard to remain upright, and shuddered as the bandits tightened their grasp.

He dropped to his knees, and imploring the leader with those teary eyes, said- in that new voice, as natural on his tongue as if it’d always been his- “Please, let my husband go. Sir, I’ll do anything.”

And coldly, the scarred bandit cocked his head. “Anything, you say? Be careful, woman.”

To Nadir’s astonishment, Erik began to weep, the tears falling freely from the edge of his veil. Was Erik crying for him? Or were the strange mechanics of his mind playing some nasty trick? Nadir did not love either outcome. 

And that damned reflex of his acted again when the bandit took a step closer.

“Don’t you dare touch-” he hissed, only to be kicked silent again.

“I- I shall pleasure you however you like,” Erik stammered, the bandits having loosened their hold upon this weak woman. “Let him live, let him live, I beg you!”

“Then we have a bargain,” the bandit said.

He knocked the Frenchman down, and as his men laughed, the leader fell upon that body. It had been ten seconds. He groped at the black cloth, hands snaking up the dress as- all pretense and thoughts forgotten- Nadir screamed and cursed. Then, it was not an act of a mock husband. His anguish was true and he meant every bit of his pleads to stop. It had been ten seconds.

Snap!

The bandit crumpled, his scarred eye still open in disbelief, head hanging limpy from a cracked neck. Erik sat, one knee up, a piece of catgut wound around his wrist. The tremors were gone and whatever fear had been in those eyes was replaced with a smug triumph.

“That was for trying to steal our horse,” he said, still in the woman’s voice.

Nadir was soon forgotten when the group moved to avenge their leader. He looked away, familiar with the snaps of Erik’s punjab. 

“That was for ruining our sleep.”

The final snap never came. Instead, Nadir heard a horrid cry of terror. When he looked up, he was met with the image of Erik standing over the last thief, veil undone and death’s head grinning in the dark.

_ “This is for harming my husband.” _

The bandit fainted, and giving a final cackle, Erik too crumpled in the sand. When he gathered his bearings, with no small thanks to Nadir’s panicked cries, the magician dragged himself up and limped to where the Daroga lay. He sliced the man’s bonds and helping Nadir up, swiped the blood on his bearded chin away.

“Erik, are you-”

“No, I’m not all right!” the Frenchman said, a flare of temper in his voice, again the man Nadir knew, “what kind of husband are you, daroga!? Can’t even protect  _ your wife?” _

“Erik, I’m sorry. But mind you, I was not the chief of police for no reason. I would not have let us die at the hands of common thieves.”

Nor did he hope for the thieves themselves to die. But Erik was not in the mood to argue. Nadir accepted this and the truth was, he would find it hard to pity their leader’s death.

“You’re an idiot,” the magician said, “I regret marrying you.”

“Erik, we’re not truly married.”

“Erik still regrets it.”

“Erik-”

The magician silenced him with a finger on lips. He looked Nadir once more in the eye before sheepishly glancing away. “Daroga, what would you have done if they’d harmed me?”

“They  _ did _ harm you,” Nadir said, taking one bony hand, “but I can’t do anything now because… they are dead.”

“And if they weren’t?”

The Daroga did not need to think long and hard. He knew long before Erik asked the question, long before he asked the question himself. Perhaps it was an answer unlike him. Perhaps it was a wicked thing to say. But Nadir felt it without a trace of remorse.

“I would kill them.”

Erik looked back at him, utterly startled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this installment! Kudos/comments are more than welcome, and I'm always delighted to meet more pharoga shippers!


	4. Aroos - Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! 2020, let's finish this fic. I started another pharoga series last week, but that one's going to get quite angsty for Erik and Nadir. In this story though, things are significantly happier so I'm kicking off the new year with an update!

I awoke as soon as the sun rose. Then I lay in bed for a good moment, still smiling from the sweetest dream I’ve ever had. I had been standing at the couple's doorway again, Rookheeya pressing delights into my sweating palm. And then, as if her husband was no one at all, she leaned forward and kissed me, atop the bridge of my nose. She had removed the veil and it was the loveliest face I’d ever seen, as flawless as her velvet voice and as dulcet as a painting. I struggled to remember the face from my dream, but all I could recall was that pair of golden eyes. 

Those eyes could burn if they wished, and I would gladly sizzle to a crisp if Rookheeya desired it so.

I wanted to lie for another hour- before mother or one of my sisters barged in- but I remembered that Darius planned to leave at the crack of dawn. I shot up like a lightning bolt. This could be the last chance I would see her!

Hurriedly, I dressed and ran out my room, a mess of noise before I arrived at the kitchen table. Father was smoking with Darius, but she was nowhere to be seen. When mother served their plates, she scowled at me and said, “Ibrahim, you look a mess! Comb your hair.”

As I ran fingers through my tangled locks, father grunted, “Where are your manners? Say good morning.”

“Good morning father, Darius.” 

As I pulled up a chair, mother asked, “Are your sisters still asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Let them. We’ll all stay indoors today.”

I looked to Darius and said, “All of us?”

He nodded, expression unchanging. “It can’t be helped. Your parents made quite a case.”

“Does the lady know?”

“She’s still asleep.”

“But-”

“Don’t be so nosy, Ibrahim,” mother said, “the lady’s quite ill and it’s safer for all of us to stay home this morning.”

“Won’t hurt to let the boy know,” Darius replied, without so much as casting me a glance, I noticed. “Your father received word that there’s a pair of Persian criminals on the loose. We just need to wait until the authorities deem the border safe.”

Upon seeing my stunned face, father added, “Don’t worry. The story’s so far-fetched I doubt it’s even real. Your mother’s the one who worries.”

I turned away from a puff of smoke and said, “Far-fetched? What does that mean?”

Father exchanged a look with Darius and laughed heartily. “They say the Shah-in-Shah’s chief of police absconded with his magician or head of executions or whatever position this man has. And if that’s not enough-”

He gestured at his face. “This magician has a skull for a face. No nose, barely any skin. Imagine that, no nose! How does he breathe?”

It was not that funny a statement (more confusing than humorous in my opinion), but Darius laughed so loudly he almost devolved into a coughing fit. I suspected that was what woke my sisters.

“Don’t make light of it,” mother said, “what’s for certain is that they haven’t caught two dangerous men. Why, they could be in our very town!”

“Then let them pass through,” father answered, “I’m sure Darius and I could handle whatever comes here, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, quite.” Darius smiled, a weary twinge in his lips. Then, as if recalling some important matter, he looked to mother and said, “Madam, may I ask a favor of you? It concerns my wife.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“It’s… not something I want to mention in front of the boy.”

“I’m a man,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

Father snorted. “You’ll be a man once you start doing more than saving goats.”

* * *

Whatever it was that Darius did not want me to hear, I managed to uncover anyway, thanks in no small part to eavesdropping. As it turned out, Rookheeya’s monthly _ bleeding _ had started earlier than they’d anticipated and Darius hoped to borrow clean cloth to stem it. I knew little of such matters; my sisters would not start their bleeding for a good many years, and mother saw no need to speak to me about hers, as I was not a woman. All I knew was that it was dreadfully uncomfortable and must have caused dear Rookheeya great suffering. 

Darius spent the better part of the morning tending his wife (and refused my offers of aid…). They even took lunch together in that little room. According to mother, this was just evidence that they were still at that stage where they needed and wanted nothing but each other-- in ten years, they would gladly enjoy some time apart. 

“Now what does that mean?” Father had teased back.

In ten years, they would likely have many children, each handsomer than the last. But I didn’t have time to dwell on my envy, for I was sick with worry over Rookheeya. She hadn’t left the guest room all day and the only one she’d spoken with was sir. How ill was she? How much pain was she in? Should we send for a doctor?

But Darius seemed to think she was managing just fine. I was miffed at how easily he dismissed my worries, but I hadn’t the chance to argue. In the afternoon, father took him to check on the horses (perhaps worried that the Persian convicts would venture into the stables). Knowing how much my father liked to talk, I suspected they would be occupied until well past sunset.

And no longer able to contain my worry, I made my way to the guest room and knocked, perhaps too loudly.

“Ibrahim, what are you doing?”

It was my sister’s voice. Startled, I whipped around.

“Nerim,” I hissed, “don’t sneak up on me.”

A good head shorter than me, she pouted with no small condescension. “Mother told us not to bother the guests.”

“I’m not bothering. I’m checking.”

I knocked again. And then, miraculously, I received an answer- a voice from heaven itself, shining upon me like an angel’s light!

“Who is it?” asked the woman within, as airy and coy as I recalled.

“It’s me. Ibrahim.”

“Young Ibrahim?” she said as my heart stuttered. “Come in, it’s unlocked.”

Seeing my grin, Nerim shook her head. “You’re so sad, brother. The lady’s married- you’ll only annoy her.”

“What would a brat like you know?” I retorted. “Rookheeya likes me.”

“But she likes Darius more.” Nerim sighed. “He’s tall, dark, and handsome, and you’re… you.”

I tapped her on the head. Then, regaining my confidence, I opened the door, gently pushing it inwards.

Rookheeya lay in bed, back propped up by both pillows, and covered up to the chest in blanket. She wore the same black dress beneath and that damned veil still hid her face as the shroud hid her hair. But her eyes were alight with excitement, a swirl of gold and hue that entrapped me with as much gusto as her voice.

“Sir said you were ill,” I told her, “I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“I’m feeling much better.” I could hear her smile. “Thank you, Ibrahim.”

I hoped she could not see me shake at the mention of my name upon her sweet lips.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like some company? I finished my chores for the day.” 

“No you didn’t,” Nerim hissed beside me. I stepped on her foot, and she stomped on mine.

Trailing us with her amused gaze, Rookheeya patted the space beside her. “That would be lovely.”

Grinning, I entered the room, only for Rookheeya to follow that statement with a most dreadful sentence!

“Your sister can come in too.”

No!

Nerim clapped her hands and trotted in, planting her butt on the space that should have been mine. Shifting, she giggled and said, “Oh, I’d like so very much to hear another story from you!”

“Don’t bother her, Nerim!” I said. “This isn’t the time for stories!”

“It’s no trouble, dear,” Rookheeya interjected. “But why isn’t it time?”

“Yes, why isn’t it, Ibrahim?” Nerim glared at me.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unfortunately farther from Rookheeya than Nerim. And solemnly, I blurted out, “There are some dangerous men on the loose! We should all be alert.”

Rookheeya tilted her head. “Dangerous men, you say?”

“Yes! From Persia- even your Shah’s crying for their arrest!”

“Oh my,” she said, horror passing through her eyes, “how dreadful! What are these men like?”

“One is a corrupt policeman and the other man has a face as hideous as death itself.” Remembering father’s words, I pinched my nose. “In place of a nose, he only has a sunken hole. Surely this must be a monster.”

Rookheeya held a hand to her mouth behind the veil. She gasped in shock. “Oh! That sounds ghastly! I should hope we never cross paths with these villains.”

“Don’t worry. As long as I’m here, the house is safe.”

Nerim rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t listen to him, madam. He’ll be the first to run!”

“That policeman ought to be ashamed of himself,” Rookheeya said, “what kind of man would align himself with a criminal like that? Surely not one with integrity!”

I nodded. “My thoughts exactly!”

“This is all very boring to me.” Nerim tugged at Rookheeya’s sleeve. “If not a story, can you tell us about sir- how did you meet-”

“Does Darius treat you well?” I asked, cutting my sister off.

Rookheeya looked to the door, as if expecting to see the man in question walk in. She nodded. “Yes, I suppose he does. Very well.”

Then, with a hint of sadness, she said more to herself than us, “More than I deserve.”

Oh, dear Rookheeya, you deserve the world and the stars above. If I could only move the sun for you, I would gladly die burnt to a crisp.

Casting me a mischievous glance, Nerim asked, “What do you like about sir?”

Yes. What did she adore about Darius? Surely it took more than a handsome face to move a woman like Rookheeya. He was as dutiful a husband as they came, but there were plenty of dutiful men out there and Darius was hardly gentle or warm to her.

Rookheeya laughed, the sound as light as summer dawn. “That’s a good question.”

She fidgeted with her hands and said, deep in thought, “I like the way his voice cracks when he’s trying to be gentle. Darius is a tough man by nature, but he does try his best.”

She looked to the ceiling. “He has the worst taste in hats, but he makes up for it with his taste in poetry. Not that Darius is a good poet by any means.”

Those eyes drifted down again. “He snores too loudly, but I like the way his eyes are when he wakes up in the morning- just two pools of green, like a confused kitten. I suppose those are the things I love about him; I love how stupid he can be and how selfless and how his lips twitch when I make a joke at his expense.”

“That’s so… beautiful.”

Nerim appeared absolutely taken by these sickly declarations of love for sir. I, however, only felt a morose envy, something leaden and angry within my burning chest. Oh, Rookheeya, I could only hope Darius knew just how devoted you were, for your sake, if not mine.

If we’d asked Darius what he loved of his wife, I had a feeling he would only say her voice and a passing sentence about how compatible they were. If I were him, I would have much, much more to say.

“Mother said you weren’t feeling well, so I shouldn’t ask you for a story,” Nerim said, patting Rookheeya on the arm, “I’ll tell you a story instead.”

I scoffed. “What story could you possibly tell-”

“This is the story of the time Ibrahim burned himself with an egg-”

“Nerim, don’t you dare.” But I knew there was no stopping her now.

* * *

Their host had quite a talent for saying nothing with very many words. Nadir thought all the talkative men of the world existed in the rosy court, but it seemed that he’d been proven wrong. Able to excuse himself at last, he disappeared after dinner and returned to accompany his _ wife _ for the evening.

“The boy and the older girl had a lot to say about you,” he told Erik, the latter turned away on his side. “I don’t know why you insist on feeding this family’s obsession with Lady Rookheeya, but your brain’s always been a mystery to me.”

The man’s tenor replied, “It’s not my fault that you can’t comprehend my genius, daroga.”

Nadir pulled at the dress, lifting enough to check the changed dressings. He touched the linen beneath the ribs, grateful that no blood was seeping through. “I wouldn’t consider what you’re doing an act of ‘genius.’ Ibrahim seems to dislike me simply for being your husband- how and why this happened is beyond me.”

“You should be nicer to poor Erik. That boy would die to be in your place.”

As Erik chuckled to himself, Nadir inspected his leg, positioning his hands beneath the knee and lifting the limb up to check. The new dressings were holding up nicely, though it was evident that Erik would still be in too much pain to walk on his own. The skin remained a tad too warm for comfort, but the fever was nowhere as high as it had been at dawn.

“Stop jesting,” Nadir said, setting the leg down and the dress with it, “we have to leave tomorrow. The farther we get from the Shah’s men, the safer I’ll feel. Before more news of us spreads.”

Nadir imagined that their escape wouldn’t be complete until Constantinople, and even then, the pair did not plan to stay. _ One goal at a time, daroga, _ had been Erik’s words of surprising wisdom.

The former Daroga bent, pressing a kiss to a bony thigh. A brief shiver passed through Erik’s shape, and pleased, Nadir kissed it again.

“Daroga,” Erik said, breathless, “I don’t want us to live a lie.”

Nadir kissed the knee. Mouth pausing above the abdomen, the Persian muttered, “So what do you want?”

Trembling hands touched Nadir’s head, gently pressing into his temples. He lifted his gaze, in time to meet Erik’s, itself burning with fever and something else.

“I want this to be real. Erik wants- I want- _ I want to marry you, daroga.” _

The death’s head was lost in the shadows, but in the candlelight, Nadir could see his smile perfectly. Unsure of what he’d heard, Nadir said curiously, “Erik… to really be what we are… pretending to be, you- would be my _aroos,_ bride?”

“I would. Right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and as always, comments/kudos are super welcome! Always happy to hear from other pharoga fans!


	5. Aghd - Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fake marriage becomes a real marriage ft. actual wedding ceremony that our leads try to replicate with very limited resources (key word is try).

The former Daroga scoffed, quite sure the fever had fried Erik’s brain to a crisp. “You have no idea what you’re saying. Go to sleep, Erik.”

He pried Erik’s hands from his head, but those fingers latched onto his own as the Frenchman said with apparent offense, “But I do! This is exactly what I want- don’t you want it too, daroga?”

“You’d make a terrible wife and you know it.”

“Such cruel words, daroga! Why do you think so lowly of your Erik?”

“If I listed all the reasons, neither of us would be able to sleep a wink.”

“But I’d make a wonderful wife, daroga!” Erik sat up, pressing the Persian’s hands to his chest. “Erik would listen to your every word and he would do all the things a bride should and-”

The words were so insane that Nadir laughed. 

“Don’t laugh at me, daroga!” the Frenchman fumed, “I would! I can cook for you- you’ve had my chicken- and I can clean, and I would make your bed in the morning and-”

“I can cook and clean too, Erik. I can get on just fine without you.”

“But-”

“And if you care to remember, I’m always the one making our beds anyway.”

“Daroga-”

“If you truly wanted to do all those things you say, you’d give up before the day was over and call me a villain for tricking you into marriage.”

Erik fell silent, and wondering if he’d taken the last joke too far, Nadir prodded him and said, “So, what was it you wanted to say?”

The Frenchman gulped. And his eyes looked up, the color of candlelight. “I love you. And I’ve never loved anyone else before. I want to spend the rest of my wretched life with you.”

Then Nadir found himself quiet, nothing between save for the sound of their mingled breaths. Slowly, he crawled atop the bed, and still pondering the meaning of those words, pressed his ear to Erik’s chest. He listened to the heart thrum behind that cage of ribs, wondering how long their moments could last.

“I do too,” he said quietly.

Nadir had married once before, a ceremony that passed in a splash of color and laughs. It was a faded memory now, of a gentle smile and the taste of bread. He had barely known Rookheeya when she became his wife, and at seventeen, he was more boy than man, a mess of awkward voices and awkward words. Their families had enjoyed the wedding more than them, that much he remembered. 

Rookheeya’s eyes had been brown, flecked with bits of amber. He could have grown to love her, and perhaps her him. She had always been so accepting and kind. 

“But you will not marry me,” Erik told him sadly. “If that’s what you wish, daroga, I shan’t bother you again.”

Except Rookheeya had loved Darius. Nadir caught them together once at her mother’s funeral. His servant, ever loyal and silent, with arms around his wife, and she’d looked at Darius in a way she’d never seen Nadir. And Nadir turned a blind eye. He remembered worrying about what to do next. He did not enjoy feeling like the chain that kept Rookheeya from her beloved, nor did he think it right to ignore this affair.

In the end, his worries were for nothing. Rookheeya died in childbirth, and Nadir still did not know who that dead child belonged to. And either way, he had mourned and grieved the death of his dear friend, the wife that he almost loved.

“Erik-”

Darius was free now. Nadir had paid him what he owed before he’d left with the magician. And all three men had gone different ways. Or, one of them had.

“I’ll marry you.” Nadir sat up and slid off the bed’s edge. “But we must do it correctly.”

“You- you will?” Erik’s tongue quivered; Nadir had long since admitted he loved the shiver of anticipation in that voice.

The former Daroga nodded. They could not pull off a proper ceremony in the current circumstances, but he intended to make the most of it. There would be no guests- surely he could not invite young Ibrahim or his parents. He went to their belongings, rummaging for the bundle their hosts had so generously given for their travels.

Nadir removed a quilt, the color of Turkish blue, and spread it on the floor. He broke off some flatbread the lady had provided and placed them in front. Beside, he put what remained of Erik’s delights and a small assortment of nuts and spice he’d bought from the square. 

“Don’t forget the coins, daroga- I don’t want us to die poor.”

“You can arrange this if you want to complain,” Nadir grunted.

But he had nearly forgotten. He found his pouch and tossed a few coins onto the quilt. From the rest of their luggage, he pulled out two candlesticks they’d yet to use (of which Erik had so vehemently insisted they took from Mazandaran). He lit their wicks with the candle in their room. After setting them up, he took the mirror from the dresser- only now noticing Erik had overturned it so that the glass lay hidden- and propped it before the quilt.

“Get your veil,” he ordered.

As Erik covered that face, Nadir picked through their belongings until he found the pinch of esfand he’d tucked away. In Mazandaran, Erik had scolded him for being superstitious but Nadir ignored him and brought it along anyway. He had nothing to burn it with, so spreading it in front of his  _ bride’s _ place was all he could do.

At his last wedding (a blur he barely recalled), Nadir did not do any of this preparation. He doubted he was following the right steps and he was sure their little ceremony paled in comparison to whatever it was Erik once dreamed of. He imagined that Erik wished to play groom in a church with wide stained glass as some brave young woman kissed him before a western priest. 

“Daroga, do you regret not packing more now?”

Erik placed the cap of astrakhan before the Persian’s knees. Next to it, he lay a wooden flute. 

“No, Erik, I don’t,” Nadir replied. “I’m very fond of this hat and I don’t need anything else.”

“Suit yourself.”

Beside the flute, Erik meant to place his mask, but the former Daroga stopped his hand. “Not that.”

“Whyever not? It’s my most important belonging.”

“Because I am a brave and stupid man capable of handling your face for the rest of our lives.”

Erik caught the smirk on his lips, and scoffing, the Frenchman complied. “Fine! Enjoy your ugly cap and Erik’s ugly face! Such taste you have.”

“If you’re done whining, we can marry.”

Nadir gestured to the space beside him, and eager, Erik took his spot beside Nadir, to the groom’s left and across that mirror. Erik hoisted the bedsheet above them with his right hand, and Nadir lifted the rest with his left.

“We don’t have everything but we can make do,” Nadir said.

“Ah, this is more than I could have ever wished for, my dear daroga.”

They looked into the mirror, twin flames bouncing from its framed glass. Keeping his gaze on the reflection of Erik’s eyes, near gold in black, Nadir said quietly, “Before this ends, we must make a few things clear.”

“Speak.”

“Never kill again. Erik, swear to me that from this night forth, no blood will touch your hands.”

The former magician hesitated, the remnants of those rosy hours still hard to shake. Muttering, he said, “I suppose next time I should just let those roughs cut your throat.”

_ “Erik.” _

Nadir waited, and a good moment later, the Frenchman nodded. 

“A word guarantees nothing,” Erik said, “but I’ll swear it. Your Erik will never take another man’s life.”

Satisfied, Nadir spoke on. “And once we’re free from all this, I wish for us to lead decent and moral lives. Can you do that?”

_ “Yes,” _ Erik answered, the affirmative sounding more like a curse.

“And on Sunday mornings, I shall take you for strolls in the park,” the Persian said, “I will give you as many kisses as you’d like and one day, perhaps, you will let me freely look upon your face. This is my vow to you.”

He heard Erik’s breath hitch, the other man’s eyes glowing bright in the mirror.

“Daroga,” he said behind that veil, “I wish to make you feel like an ordinary man with an ordinary ‘wife’… as far as our circumstances can allow. I will be dutiful and faithful, and even in death, I will love you. This is my vow.”

And then, his free hand slow, Erik placed his fingers upon the veil. He lifted it, revealing that familiar skull of a face, with its sunken eyes and hollowed nose. But Nadir did not flinch or gape as he had the first time he came across that visage. All he saw now were the dancing gold of his bride’s eyes.

They thrust the bedsheet back upon the bed. Nadir turned Erik’s head towards his own and as the latter leaned in, caught his lips in a burning kiss. He pushed Erik down upon that quilt, the Frenchman’s back arching as he pulled Nadir down.

When Nadir released that kiss, Erik said, out of breath, “Ah, daroga, I have tasted all the happiness in the world.”

Then, smiling, he asked, “What happens now?”

Nadir chuckled. “We consummate our union.”

“Hm. We can’t very well do that in this house, can we?”

“I doubt our hosts would take kindly to that.” Nadir imagined the Ibrahim boy walking in, and shook the imagery away. That was an issue he’d rather avoid.

Perhaps unknowingly, Erik’s fingers reached for his. Nadir linked their digits and said, rolling to his side, “For now, a song will do.”

And Erik sang, low and lovely in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to kudos/comment! This chapter was a bit short, but I like giving this "event" its own section. This fic is meant to be light and fluffy after all *winks*
> 
> Note: Esfand - incense meant to ward off the "evil eye"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please drop a kudos or comment if you're interested in more!
> 
> I hope the premise is interesting and that pharoga fans enjoyed this teaser. Rarepair or not, this ship will always have a special place in my heart.


End file.
